Horror Express

by David O'Hanlon

  Wells’ lips curled up devilishly. “You’re about to tell me about your horrible relationship. You boarded the train not caring where it was going, as long as it was away from him. You have nothing to your name, thus no money for a ticket. The man you’re running from was an abusive ogre. The type that grows out this way, burly and bearded and most certainly adorned in flannel. Probably an immigrant, brought out on one of the colonist cars, though not a Spaniard, like yourself.”

  Natasha didn’t say anything, but the corners of her smile dipped slightly.

  “Your accent is well-practiced, my dear but there’s enough inflection in there to give it away.” He finished his drink and signaled for another. “You’ve been abroad most of your life, but those old habits die hard. You said you have no money for a ticket, yet you could rent an entire car for the bracelet that you toy with whenever you get bored. That sapphire in the center is a karat-and-a-half by my estimate. That’s not factoring the lapis stones or the sterling setting, which are comparatively cheaper both in price and appearance. That would make me think it was a personal gift, something someone worked for and probably the only thing that you own that’s rightfully yours. Your coat is a Cifonelli, I saw the tag when I hung it up, and your dress was tailored by Charvet. A dancer I’m quite friendly with back home wears the same designer.”

  Her smile dissolved to a thin line and she tried to hide it behind her glass.

  The Quebecois serving boy rolled a beverage cart down the aisle and paused at their table, gave Natasha a coy smile, and set a fresh cocktail in front of Wells. The doctor waited until Natasha’s glass was topped off before continuing.

  “Just leave the bottle, if you would.” Natasha tilted the glass to her lips and slurped down the merlot before the waiter could set the bottle down. She handed the empty crystal back to him. “On second thought, I’ll have one of his. It’s becoming that sort of an evening.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.” The server took the bottle back and excused himself with a curt nod to Wells and a wink to Natasha.

  The doctor rolled his eyes at the boy’s attempted charms.

  He packed his pipe as he spoke. “Your hands are smooth, but not the pads of your fingers. Undoubtedly from years of practicing with lockpicks. You assume that because I’m old, I’m easily seduced. When in reality, I’ve always been easily seduced. I’m simply more appreciative of the opportunity now. It might be the last time it happens, after all.” He smiled as he struck a match to the pipe.

  “I worked hard on the story I was going to tell you. Now it’s all for naught. You should be ashamed.” She looked around the car. “Where is that boy with my drink?”

  “I am not a particularly good person, but I am a damn fine doctor, and that means paying attention to everything, my dear.”

  She dug into her clutch for a silver cigarette case. “What else have you been paying attention to, my good doctor?”

  He dropped the match into his half-eaten salad and carefully blew the smoke into the aisle, away from his date. “Your panic was real when I first saw you. My guess is the ticket agent tried his over-booked routine with you. Then the fellow at the baggage area died and you used the opportunity to sneak aboard, but also spotted the inspector. I like to think I don’t believe in coincidence. There’s a reason he’s on this train now and I’m thinking it has something to do with you. You need me to hide you and say you’re my acquaintance of several years.”

  “And what do you need?”

  Wells’ eyes sparkled with a charm fifty years younger than the rest of him. “Nothing more than to get acquainted with you, of course.”

  Natasha’s smile began to return when an odd, bespectacled man slid into the booth next to her.

  He extended a hand across the table to Wells. “I’m Archibald Tremblay.”

  “I’m unaware of how that’s important.” Wells ignored the hand and chewed the stem of the pipe.

  Tremblay pushed his glasses up his beaklike nose and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I wasn’t meaning to interrupt—”

  “But you managed anyway. Would you consider that a talent of yours?” Natasha asked.

  Tremblay turned to her apologetically. “I am sorry for the intrusion, miss. Say, weren’t you at Petrovski’s soiree?” His eyes widened excitedly. “The materials he presented are really something, aren’t they? I’ve never seen a metal with such qualities. What did—”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Natasha tapped her long nails on the table and turned to Wells.

  Tremblay cocked an eyebrow at the lady. “Are you sure you weren’t there?”

  “I generally don’t forget where I’ve been, Mr. Tremblay. I assure you, I’ve never seen you before and I have no clue who this Petrovski gentleman is.”

  “Do forgive me.” Tremblay cleared his throat. “I didn’t think there could be two women as striking as you in this frigid wasteland. I guess I was mistaken.”

  The waiter returned with Natasha’s cocktail and another wink. Wells puffed smoke directly in his path and watched the young man’s complexion turn.

  Wells clicked this tongue impatiently. “Now that we’ve established that you don’t know either of us, would you please come to your point, sir?”

  Tremblay paused, seemed to be looking for a word. “I saw you at the platform, doctor. You know, earlier,” he leaned in close, “with the body.” Tremblay whispered the last word, like a conspirator in the fellow’s demise.

  Wells looked at his notes briefly. “Yes, and?”

  “I’m a scientist, a physicist, to be exact. I’ve recently been in the employ of Mr. Nikola Tesla, though our last collaboration I am contractually forbidden to speak of as exciting as you would find it. You understand, I’m sure.” Tremblay stopped himself and straightened his lapels. “Sorry, I have trouble focusing sometimes.”

  “Thank goodness you pointed it out,” Natasha muttered before drowning her contempt.

  “The fellow on the platform, well, I was thinking that level of hemorrhaging could be caused by radiation.” Tremblay nodded enthusiastically. “A gamma burst, perhaps.”

  “Yes, in theory.” Wells puffed at his pipe, staring at a similar note on his pad he’d already scratched out. “The level of radiation required for that rapid an onset would have affected everyone in the vicinity. Since we are not dead, I think we can rule out such an event.”

  Tremblay raised a finger and an eyebrow. A smirk of self-assured brilliance stretched across his face. “Actually, there has been quite some debate in the scientific community about harnessing such powers for the use of mankind.”

  “Yes, I’m quite fond of science fiction myself. Cromie’s The Crack of Doom, perhaps? Maybe The Columbus of Space?”

  Tremblay reddened at the insult. “I have seen the effects of roentgen rays first hand, felt them even. As I said, my silence is contractually obligated. One thing I can say, however, is that as a species, we have proven we are only limited by our imaginations.”

  “And those imaginations are nigh limitless when it comes to killing. When given sticks and stones, we sharpened them to kill one another more efficiently. In the very near future, Mr. Tremblay, I to believe man will know atomic power, followed shortly by atomic devastation. Thoughts like that make me glad my time is almost at an end.” He smirked at Natasha. “And company like I was enjoying make me glad I still have some hours left. Are we finished here?”

  The waiter rolled a cart next to the booth before Tremblay could answer and began setting the table. The trout lay on the silver platter staring blankly at Wells. The aged doctor cocked his head at the lifeless, white eye. He looked down at his notes and then back to the fish’s eye.

  “It’s white. Completely erased,” he muttered to no one in particular.

  “Of course, it is. The fish has been boiled.” Tremblay stood and straightened his jacket. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, doctor.”

  “That makes no sense. None at all.” Wells scrawled a
giant Z through his notes. “There’s no accounting for the eyes.” His gaze shot to Tremblay and he held up a single finger. “Radiation wouldn’t do it either, before you go getting excited.”

  Tremblay plopped back down and leaned over the table to read Wells’ notes. “Perhaps a toxic gas? There has been interest in such weapons. Though, that would still leave no accounting for how it was isolated. A poison?”

  Wells shrugged. “Seems unlikely. There are some similarities to a few naturally occurring toxins. However, none of them are naturally occurring in this region. A synthetic poison, concealed in another pilfered case or crate perhaps? Like a booby-trap.” Wells scowled “That seems rather ludicrous, when said out loud.”

  Natasha glowered at them both, staring disinterestedly into her cocktail. “I see you have a found yourself a new date then, Doctor Wells. Perhaps, I should—” She turned her head sharply and flipped her hair over her face, busying herself with an in-depth study of the tablecloth’s embroidery.

  Inspector Mirov leaned against the back of Wells’ bench and bent next to him. “Pardon the interruption.”

  “Think nothing of it, Inspector. Interrupting my dinner seems to be the preferred entertainment aboard this train.” Wells gestured to Tremblay. “I’d offer you a seat, but it’s occupied. And I don’t like you.”

  Mirov scratched the corner of his lip. “I suppose I was a bit harsh earlier. I’m working a very important case that has been quite bothersome. It’s kept me on edge and, as a result, I was abrupt with both you and the professor. Perhaps, I was even excessive.”

  “Yes, it was rather penile of you.”

  Mirov sighed and shrugged. “Yes. Agreed. You are a medical doctor, isn’t that right?”

  “Not until after dinner, I’m not.”

  “Please, Doctor Wells, I need your assistance.”

  “With what? Have you a patient on board?”

  “Of sorts.” Mirov shooed away the waiter, casting a nervous glance at Tremblay and Natasha, then leaned closer to Wells. “It’s the baggageman.”

  Wells scoffed. “I assure you, even I can’t help him.”

  “I would like you to perform an autopsy.”

  Tremblay’s beady eyes seemed to grow ten-times. “Has there been another death? This is exciting news.”

  Mirov shushed him, slicing the air with his hand. “Keep it down. Something about this is vexing me. I will release your friend from his confinement as soon as you are finished with the autopsy.”

  Wells thought about the proposition and stole a glance at Natasha’s plunging neckline. “Keep Alex in your compartment for the night and you have a deal.”

  Mirov nodded in agreement. “I’ll see you after your meal, though I would prefer you dine quickly.” He made his way out of the dining car.

  “Should you really be eating before an autopsy?” Natasha asked.

  “Oh yes, my dear. Eating during one is much too messy. However, I would like to wrap this up sooner. So, if you’ll excuse me, duty calls. Afterwards, I’m all yours.” Wells rose and gave a slight bow to Natasha before walking to the back of the car, where Miss Jones was dining in a booth of her own.

  Wells tipped an imaginary hat to her.

  “What in the sweet hell do you want now, Jim?”

  Wells feigned a chest wound. “Only the benign pleasure of your company.”

  Miss Jones stared at him and picked at a piece of romaine between her teeth.

  He huffed. “Oh, fine. I need your help, damn it.”

  Jones leaned over for a look at Natasha, then sat back and smiled. “At your age, I’m not surprised. She could best even a young man, I believe.”

  “Not with the girl,” Wells gasped. “Why do you pester me so, woman? We have an autopsy to perform.”

  “In that case, I’ll grab my bag.” She stood up and gently pushed past Wells. “You better tell your date goodnight. She probably has a bedtime still.”

  Wells checked the time. His face soured. “Let’s make this quick, just in case.” He snapped the watch closed and jammed it back into his pocket.

  ***

  The knock was light and soft. Not the knock of a police inspector. Saxton stared at the knob for a moment and dropped his fork to the plate with a clatter. The inspector’s quarters were much smaller than his own, but he had been enjoying the lack of Wells in the tight little compartment.

  “Come in, if you must.”

  The door opened and Saxton immediately wished to take back the bitterness of his invitation. He tried to snap to his feet, but his lanky build and the tiny room made it impossible. His knees banged against the table and his barely stopped the wine glass from toppling over. A splash of pinot spattered against the inspector’s suitcase.

  “Please, you don’t have to get up,” Irina reassured in her honeyed tone.

  Saxton slumped back into his seat. “That’s good news, since it seems impossible anyhow. What may I do for you, madam?” He wiped off his hands with the pressed napkin.

  “You intrigue me, Professor Saxton.” She drifted gracefully into the bench seat across from him.

  His raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, I’m quite the bore.”

  “Perhaps on a normal day. Today, you’re being held for the murders of two men.”

  Saxton opened his mouth, but never got the chance to speak.

  “Oh, I spoke with the guard outside and he told me about the late porter. Terrible business. I take it that uncouth inspector doesn’t want everyone to know, but the gentleman outside is much more pleasant and told me the whole, sordid tale. People always find it very easy to speak with me.”

  “You’re not too horrible to look at either.”

  “Are you attempting to flatter me?”

  “If it’s working.”

  “It is not. However, I don’t fancy you as the murderous type. Do you believe your specimen might be involved?”

  Saxton refilled his wine glass and offered it to Irina. “Apologies, I only have the one glass.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “That’s a tragedy. I’m much funnier when you do. I should add better looking, but there isn’t enough wine for such miracles, I’m afraid.”

  Irina giggled and shook her head. “Do you take anything seriously?”

  “Everything. Or so I’m told. Wells, on the other hand, is a childish buffoon, but only when he’s not being a brilliant physician. He could be correct about a contagion—a virus, frozen within my Neanderthal, perhaps. So, yes, I suppose my specimen may be at fault.”

  “Then why not destroy it?”

  “Are you daft? A Neanderthal in North America is unheard of. They were dead and gone, twenty, maybe even thirty, thousand years before Paleo-Indians made their way to this continent. It unravels all of our beliefs about human evolution.”

  “Evolution.” Her eyes rolled. “A vile and immoral theory.”

  Saxton’s eyes hovered over the small, golden cross, enchantingly dangling above her breasts.

  “It is no theory, it is a fact. Facts cannot be immoral. They simply are. Just as simply as two men are dead. If it is to be determined that my specimen somehow carries a living disease after all this time, then we should be even less inclined to destroy it. Nothing should still be viable after so long in the ice, and, if it is, then this is the greatest discovery in two separate fields of science. Perhaps many more. We cannot simply dispose of it, because it’s inconvenient to nosy porters and thieves.”

  Irina’s jaw dropped open. “Are you so callous?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Perhaps I should be more sensitive to the situation, but I cannot be. I am a man of science, not words, and I apologize if my manner is offensive. The facts are what interest me, madam. I have seen many claims of the supernatural and not one fact to back them up.”

  “Baudelaire said ‘The devil’s finest trick is to persuade you that he does not exist.’”

  “It is not the devil whose existence was ever in question. I have seen plent
y of evidence to support it, in fact. I am an anthropologist. I study both the history and science of man and, if you wish to find the source of all evil, you have it in those three letters—man is the only devil here.”

  Irina rose and smoothed the creases of her dress. “I suppose he is.” She opened the door and stepped into the corridor with a curt nod.

  “Baudelaire also said that it was through the unknown that we find the new.”

  Irina stopped with her fingers gently hooked on the door handle. “You brought the unknown the onboard this train, Professor. All anyone has found as a result is death. Goodnight.” She shut the door on her way out.

  “Bollocks.” Saxton reached for the wine bottle.

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Mirov pointed a flashlight for Jones while she tapped a chisel along the baggageman’s skull.

  “Oh no, of course not. I usually just handle the laundry.” She gave the chisel a hard jerk and snapped open the man’s skull. “I also make sandwiches.”

  Pooled blood spilled across the floorboards. The cargo car had been converted into a makeshift operating room, complete with three crates covered in old tarpaulins for an autopsy table and two twirling lanterns dangling dangerously overhead for better light.

  Jones cocked her head to the side and stared at the brain. “Doctor, what do you think of this?”

  Wells squatted slightly to get at eye-level with the organ. “Interesting, very interesting.”

  Mirov craned his neck, not getting any closer. “What’s interesting?”

  Miss Jones gently coaxed the brain from the skull so Wells could severe the spinal cord. She held the brain directly under Mirov’s nose, an inch from his lips.

  “Notice anything strange about this brain, Inspector?”

  Mirov grimaced and paled, taking a small step backward. “Aside from the fact that it’s outside the body, ma’am?”

  “No, you ninny. It’s much too small. Even for a man.” She moved it in front of Wells.

  The doctor pointed at three concaved areas on the frontal lobe. “Those are cerebral infarctions. There’s another in the cerebellum. The thalamus and hypothalamus are…well, they’re pudding. Aren’t they?”